


Derealization (After Hours)

by coolant



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Game, Slow Burn, Sorry Cop, The Pale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23130046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolant/pseuds/coolant
Summary: Conversations had after hours at the 41 between Kim Kitsuragi and his new, amnesiac partner Harry Du Bois. Often over cigarettes.Eventually, things start to unravel.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi
Comments: 44
Kudos: 207





	1. Kicking one habit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has something important to tell Kim. Kim enjoys the Jamrock sunset.

The sunsets in Jamrock feel different than the ones in your old district. More buildings with windows to bounce the orange light off of. You miss the ocean views of the Industrial District, but a sea of concrete towers is a change of pace, at least. On the balcony at the back of the old mill that is Precinct 41, you take out your notebook and a cigarette. Normally you would review your notes at home, but you don’t want to spend the early spring twilight stuck in traffic.

You don’t get very far in your review before Harry Du Bois pokes his head out the door frame from inside the precinct.

“Mind if I join you?” He asks. He’d leave if you told him too. Exhaling smoke, you wave him over.

“I’m going to stop drinking.” Harry tells you unceremoniously, unlit cigarette hanging from his lip as he searches for a lighter in his disco blazer. “Alcohol. I’m going to stop drinking alcohol. Or try to.”

Harry is tempering your expectations as well as his own. Not a great sign, but you suppose it’s better than nothing. You produce your lighter, flicking it on, and offer it to him. He looks at you sheepishly, leaning in to light his smoke.

“That’s good. It’s a dangerous habit.” Though, you’ve learned enough about Harry in the last month to understand relapses are inevitable. He has an addictive personality. You hope he succeeds, for his sake and you own. After all, you are partners now. _Harry’s officially your problem, Lieutenant._

“Yeah, well. We’ll see how it goes.” He smirks, looking out the balcony at Jamrock. “Anyway, I’ll probably be smoking more. For the… I dunno, cravings?” He grins. “May have to butt-in on your nightly smokes, now.” 

He doesn’t _have_ to. He wants to spend time with you while he replaces one addiction with another. You shrug.

“I don’t mind the company.” His smile is practically audible. You look back out at the sunset. 

“How are you settling in?” Harry joins you in admiring the view. “Anyone giving you any shit?”

“Not at all. Everyone has been quite welcoming.” You pause. “Satellite-officer Viquemare has been someone effusive with his _warnings,_ though.” Harry sighs, dragging a hand down his face. 

“Yeah, I figured.” There’s hurt in Harry’s voice but he also knows the pain is warranted. “I don’t remember what I did to him, but it must have been a lot.”

You, unlike Harry, have some notion what he “did.” Harry is not the first addict you’ve known. The pattern of behavior isn’t hard to imagine. Jean also employed some evocative imagery: finding Harry passed out from a cocktail of substances, face down in a puddle of vomit. Harry showing up drunk to Sunday night dinners with Jean’s family, infuriating the then-Mrs. Viquemare enough to cause marital strife. Harry missing shifts, Harry getting _high_ on shifts. Jean went on for about 15 minutes.

You wonder how different Harry’s life would be if his addictions damaged his efficacy at detective work. Unfortunately for him, he’s still a damn good detective high off his ass. At least now he’s attempting to turn a new leaf. Mysterious brain trauma can have that effect on a man.

“Still, he’s kind of an asshole.” Harry jokes, hoping you’ll get in on it. You smirk and shake your head.

“I’m staying out of that.”

“Fair enough.” Harry shrugs good-naturedly. “Did you know he has kids? Three of them. They live with his ex-wife.”

“I didn’t know.” Your only topic or conversation with Jean has, frankly, been about Harry. You really can’t decide if Jean is glad you’re Harry’s new partner. He seems simultaneously relieved and worried.

“I’ve probably met them.” He sounds almost incredulous. “And I can’t remember them at all.”

You remember that Harry is paradoxically bad with kids and good with teenagers. Maybe now Jean’s kids are an easier age for Harry. Harry ever having a meeting with Jean’s kids at this juncture seems unlikely.

“One of them was born while we were partners, even.” He’s smoking a bit more rapidly, now. “I could have held that baby and not even known.”

You say nothing, because you’re not sure what one _says_ about a statement like that. It clearly weighs heavily on him. You wonder how long he had to harass Judit before she gave him the lowdown on his past with Jean.

“I hope I can make it right with him.” His voice gets quiet. Maybe even thoughtful. 

“You can.” You say gently. _If you want to. If the damage wasn’t too severe._ Without thinking, you pat Harry’s shoulder as he slumps over the railing. “You will.”

“Thanks, Kim.” Harry’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, but he is grateful nonetheless. 

You hear a bird somewhere. A mourning dove, you think.

 _Harry can make good_ , you think to yourself. You’ve seen his ability for destruction, but also impulsive, reckless kindness.

Jean likely doesn’t have the luxury of patience when it comes to Harry anymore. The wait for destruction to give way to kindness could simply be too long.

“Just keep working hard, detective.” You say finally, polishing off your cigarette. In the end, Harry needs your sympathy. You were kind to him when he’d burned all his bridges and tried to die. Why does something small inside you love that feeling? “Keep your nose down. You’ll be alright.”

“I can do that.” Harry nods confidently, keeping it light, but this is a lie to him right now. He hopes it will manifest as truth if he says it enough. And so do you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter fic I’ve ever written out all ahead of time. Gonna polish the chapters and put them up as they’re finished!
> 
> Next chapter will be largely from Harry’s perspective.


	2. Physical Education

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kim teases Harry about his past as an educator. Harry shows off.

YOU: Your shift is over for the day, so you and Kim go out to the balcony to smoke and decompress. You love these moments, a pocket of contentedness between your stressful hours at work and your stressful hours at home, alone. The sun is bright orange, low in the sky.

KIM: “So,” Kim glances over from his cigarette. “A gym teacher, huh?”

EMPATHY (Medium: Success): He’s teasing you. Just a little. He finds the knowledge of your past profession comical, but it also makes *sense* of you. He thinks you could have been quite the bruiser in your day. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Does he like that?

YOU: “Mhm.” You manage, shrugging. It’s started coming back to you in pieces. 

SHIVERS (Formidable: Success): The squeak of tennis shoes on varnished wood, the smell of body odor. Rows of teens begrudgingly doing jumping jacks. Some kids walked their way through the mile run and smoked cigarettes when they thought you couldn’t see them.

YOU: “That do anything for ya?” You flex your bicep in a way you think looks cool but also funny. 

ENDURANCE: It’s tiring, talking about your shitty, sad life all the time. Sometimes it helps to laugh about it. 

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim cracks a smile. “No.” He exhales. Harsh! “I hated gym class.”

YOU: “Strange. I always pegged you as a sportsman. Do they have pinball leagues for high schoolers?”

KIM KITSURAGI: He hits you with the eyebrow and blows smoke in your direction. He turns from the railing and leans back on his elbows. If you didn’t know any better, he was giving you a once over out of the corner of his eye. You remember him once commenting on your ‘bicep-girth.’ 

INLAND EMPIRE: You think about that often.

KIM KITSURAGI: He continues. “What makes someone become a gym teacher? It seems like a thankless job.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS (Trivial: Success): One involving non-stop contact with juveniles.

YOU: “It was something I could do. Exercise. It came easy.” You didn’t think too much about it. You had to get a job, so you taught pimply 14-year-olds how to play soccer and do push-ups. 

INLAND EMPIRE: Things they would probably forget as soon as they left you.

YOU: “It’s really very boring, Kim. You’re very nice for humoring me with questions.”

KIM KITSURAGI: He shakes his head. “I’m not just humoring you.” 

DRAMA (Easy: Success): He means it, but why?

KIM KITSURAGI: He smiles the slightest bit. “I’m just relishing the opportunity to ask you about yourself. It hasn’t really been possible in our partnership so far.”

YOU: You scratch your head bashfully. “That’s true.” In the short time you’ve known Kim, you’ve mostly asked him questions. It must get tiresome, answering the endless questions of a middle-aged amnesiac.

YOU: “Well, you’re welcome to ask me anything. But I might make up answers when I can’t remember.” That makes things reciprocal, right?

KIM KITSURAGI: “You don’t say, Detective Cousteau?” He’ll play that game. “Alright, let's start here. How old are you actually?” You had played coy about your age after asking Kim how old he thought you were. It seems childish in retrospect.

ENCYCLOPEDIA (Easy: Failure): How old did he say you looked?

You: “44.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA (Trivial: Success): That one was easy!

KIM KITSURAGI: He visibly blanches. He wasn’t expecting 44. Mid-50s at the youngest. “Khm, well, was that so hard?”

ENCYCLOPEDIA (Easy: Success): He said be thought you were 58.

VOLITION (Medium: Failure): Oh my god that’s so much older!

COMPOSURE: He hides his surprise well.

PAIN-THRESHOLD: We don't like this game.

YOU: “Not at all!” You have to remove yourself from this situation. Maybe telling him he could ask you questions was a bad idea “Anyway, Kim, still need help installing those spinners on your Kineema? I’m free tonight.”

VOLITION: Better to keep yourself busy in the wake of such an ego blow. 

KIM KITSURAGI: He smiles, thinking for a moment. “Well I don’t need help, but I wouldn’t mind it.” Good, he’s distracted by the motor-carriage stuff from the actual age of your rapidly-decaying body. “I’m finished here. We can go when you’re ready.” 

You finish your cigarettes on the way to the precinct garage. 

GARAGE OF PRECINCT 41: It’s not crowded at this time of the night. Some poor maintenance worker is hosing out the back of a Kineema, but other than that you have the room to yourselves. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Kim’s probably glad to keep this little bit of frivolity a secret from the rest of the precinct.

KIM KITSURAGI: He pulls the spinners out of the back seat, holding them gingerly. There is a glint in his eye.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: A newly teenaged Kim watches from afar as the older boys at school gather around one’s new motorbike. The boy with the bike revs the engine. Kim admires the sleek lines, the shine of the sun on its spokes.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Removing the bolts is going to be the most difficult part.” Says Kim, placing the spinners gently on the ground. He leans into the back of his motor carriage, looking for his tire iron.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Look how small his waist is!

LOGIC (Easy: Success): His waist isn’t small, his coat is just puffy.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Both things can be true.

VOLITION (Medium: Success): Can we *not* do this right now? Let’s not.

YOU: With some effort you do not indulge the impulse to grab Lt. Kitsuragi’s waist with both hands. Still, the impulse itself troubles you.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: We should get laid soon. It would be good for us.

YOU: Well I can’t disagree.

VOLITION: But not with Kim. Definitely not.

COMPOSURE: Kim is your only friend right now. You don’t want to mess *this* up like you have everything else.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Besides, you’re not a homo. That’s homo shit.

YOU: You clear your throat as Kim emerges with his tire iron. You’re happy there’s something you can do, now. “Here, allow me!” You say, too loudly, swiping it from the lieutenant's hand. 

ENCYCLOPEDIA (Easy: Failure): Have we done this before?

YOU: Only one way to find out! You secure the iron over the bolt and use your weight to pull it down, slowly easing it loose. 

INTERFACING: These must have been applied with a mechanical tool. They are *really* hard to get off.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: No one can know that this is difficult. Keep turning!

KIM KITSURAGI: He quietly collects the bolts as you remove them. The fluorescent lights of the garage shine off his glasses so you cannot see his eyes.

—

It’s as you’re watching Harry lean with all his weight into the tire iron, with so much force the Kineema strains against its parking brake, that you realize you have a cheater bar somewhere in your toolkit to increase leverage. It would make Harry’s self-appointed job easier. 

But- and you are ashamed of this- you’re enjoying watching the muscles in his forearms bulge as he pulls the wrench. The sweet that beads on his brow as he finishes up the final bolt are too precious to go unseen. 

It’s a bit cruel, you think, to make him do all this extra work just to help you. You’re about to feel guilty, when he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and gives you a toothy grin. He reminds you of a dog with a bone.

“Thank you, detective.” You say cooly. You kneel down with one of the spinners in hand, lifting it into place. He’s still standing up, looking down at you. “Could you hold this steady for a moment? I’ll take care of the rest.”

He does so, kneeling down on the ground with a grunt of effort. His body radiates heat next to you. Mercifully, you keep the shiver that threatens to roll over your skin at bay till the task is finished.

You rest your hands on your hips to admire the work. This is entirely ostentatious, definitely ridiculous. You love it.

Smiling, you nod at Harry. “Thank you for your help, detective.” 

—

YOU: So, was he watching? Did he think I looked very cool and masculine?

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You did indeed look cool. And masculine. 

PERCEPTION (SIGHT): And he did look at you.

SUGGESTION (Medium: Failure): But we don’t know how cool he thought you looked. 

YOU: Hm. I’ll have to try again later. And not interrogate why I’m so desperate to make Kim think I’m cool!

DRAMA: Very good, my liege.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if the spacing hurts legibility, I can never tell!
> 
> Also, things might get agnsty from here on out. :)


	3. Secrets Trading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talks about some undergrounds and a certain young smoker.

“How did you know?” You ask as you breathe smoke, tapping ashes off the edge of the balcony. You’re not worried, as it were. Detective Du Bois hasn’t seemed any different since your conversation about the homo-sexual underground. He hasn’t struck you as the homophobic sort- or, if he is, he’s since forgotten in the wake of his now-legendary bender.

“About?” Harry is lighting up his second cigarette while you are only halfway through your one. He looks over and you can see the wheels turning as he tries to anticipate. He worries you’ve already told him and he wasn’t paying attention.

“My being a member of the _homo-sexual underground_.” You smile a little, flicking your cigarette free of ash with your thumb. You’re simply curious what made him think to ask.

“I didn’t.” Harry scratches his chin thoughtfully. “It was just a hunch. Human Can-opener and all that.” His brow creases a little and he turns those sad red eyes to you. “I’m sorry if I overstepped, Kim.”

He’s telling the truth- he didn't mean to seem insensitive. You think you’re beginning to understand how he became known as the Human Can-opener. However, you think he seems more like a bloodhound; compelled to follow a scent till the trail ends no matter what.

“It’s alright.” You say coolly. “I just wonder what gave you that hunch.” It’s not often you’re asked about your personal life. You’ve worked hard to keep it separate from your professional life. Perhaps your co-workers wouldn’t care, but perhaps they would. Best to keep it to yourself.

But if you’re sending messages subconsciously, well... Better to know.

“Just little things.” Harry shrugs. “You’d make a point to not react at all when Cuno was screaming, uh, slurs. You didn’t seem disgusted or like you agreed. Your face just didn’t move at all.”

You feel compelled, however foolishly, to rebut this. But you don’t react as you consider it. Harry points at you, grinning. “Like that, you’re doing it right now!”

You try not to let it rumple your feathers and take another drag of your cigarette. 

“Fine.” Harry’s grin is goofy-looking. He’s proud of his detective work- likes getting things right. Which lends itself to the dog analogy. “But why not assume I simply don’t care enough to respond?”

“People only react- or don’t react- when it’s something they spend time thinking about.” You’re annoyed how confidently he says it, but it seems correct. You narrow your eyes.

“Alright. What else?” Harry thinks again, glancing at you, checking to make sure you’re not agitated.

“When we learned about Ruby…” He starts carefully. “When I asked if Klaasje suspected Ruby was in love with her, that it could have been a motive. You seemed…” Harry pauses, eyes still on your face. “Well, defensive.” Harry then looks away and pops his cigarette back in his mouth.

This postulation annoys you more than the first so you allow yourself a light scowl.

“Why do you ask?” Harry glances over at you. You can feel him trying to answer his question just by looking at you. 

“I was curious.” 

This also isn’t a lie. There is a part of you that wondered if he had ulterior motives for asking. It was, after all, the subject of a multi-hour ‘brain project.’ Perhaps he has remembered something about himself.

The idea that Harry would admit some homo-sexuality to you had crossed your mind on more than one occasion. Not the first time you’d secretly hoped a hetero-sexual man would come out to you. This was, though, the first time it was a reasonable possibility.

It didn’t help your state of mind that you found him charming. Funny, even. And tall. You caught a glimpse of his chest as he adjusted that horrific necktie and saw a thicket of hair there. Remembering this, you lick your lips.

“Don’t worry, Kim.” Harry says and he winks, coming close to making that horrible pained expression he makes when he’s trying too hard to charm. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

You puff a laugh as you exhale the last of your cigarette. You feel fondness for him. It hasn’t even been more than a month of officially working together. 

“Speaking of, how's your smoker friend?” You give Harry a knowing look that he meets with wide eyes. “You know, the one that _smells good_.”

To your silent delight, Harry blushes. You’ve never seen his cheeks this pink without inebriates involved.

“Him? I haven’t seen him since I left Martinaise.” Harry coughs, taking another drag in an effort to cover his face. 

“Really? I figured if he inspired such an arduous mind project, he must be important.” You should really stop teasing. It could turn mean. 

“That wasn’t-“ he starts, grunting. “It was just so obvious that he was so it got me thinking-“

It’s gratifying to fluster him. Especially about this. Though you expected indignant embarrassment. This is just the regular kind. You know, the sort he’d feel if you were on to something?

“Well he got me thinking, or maybe remembering, that I would, you know, go to that party.” A pause. “As well as... others. But I didn’t. With him.” The metaphor has gotten away from him. He hopes you get the point.

You do, right? He means he’s bi-sexual.

You weren’t expecting this sort of admission. An embarrassed or flustered denial, maybe. Or some sort largely platonic, vaguely flirtatious repartee. But not a confession of homo-sexual impulses. Though you are not shocked, exactly. Few purely hetero-sexual men entertain questions of their own sexuality so cavalierly.

“He was too young for you, anyway.” You say quickly, as much to rush past his embarrassment as your own. Harry laughs heartily. 

“You’re right, of course. Way too young for me.” He grins at you, seeming pleased that he’s shared this with you- and you haven’t made it a big deal.

Because it’s not a big deal. 

Suddenly, the chill of the air hits you. You put out your cigarette on the sole of your shoe.

“You just look so cool all the time!” He mumbles, more to himself than to you. You pat him on the shoulder as you tell him you’re headed home for the night. Your ears heat up at the warm way he says goodnight.

—

YOU: A shiver rolls over you after Kim leaves. You hadn’t planned to say any of that.

COMPOSURE: Kept your cool, though. 

VOLITION: Not particularly.

YOU: Why did I tell him that? He might have thought I was coming onto him!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Well we weren’t not…

INLAND EMPIRE: You just want him to understand. To connect over this.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Over liking dick.

YOU: You light your third cigarette.

  
  


—

  
  


On the way home you crack the window of your Kineema so the spring air can cool your skin. You get back to your apartment quickly; traffic is light at this time of night. Once in the door, you take off your jacket and hang it up, then remove each boot with care. You think it’s time for a shower. You strip and turn the water on, testing it with your fingers to be sure it’s the proper temperature. 

You’re still thinking about Harry.

This is ridiculous. Why dwell on it? So he’s bi-sexual? That doesn’t mean anything.

Well of course it does. It means it’s *possible.* Every crush you’ve at work has been pure fantasy- something that would never be requited because you were a man. You were safe from both pleasure and rejection. 

But now it could be real. The concept of his closeness begins to feel like a threat- of desire and of disappointment. It’s not too crazy to happen. Why, if he were attracted to you, he could just ask you.

To do what? Go steady? Fuck in the back of the Kineema? He’s your superior officer. This is ridiculous.

It is ridiculous, but it’s also late, so the tight control in which you keep your mind is failing. You think about Harry talking to the man on the balcony as you step into the shower. You think about how he subconsciously adjusted his tie and hair before they spoke. You think about the look on the young man’s face- he is feeling young and beautiful, feeling like being devoured and devouring.

Your hand slides down your stomach.

You wonder if Harry would fluster at the younger man’s advances, or if he would grin and take the lead. You wonder what one of his thick hands would look like wrapped around a pale chin, tilting sweet, smokey lips upward. You wonder what soft, deep noises Harry might make with that young delicate mouth secured around his-

You come on the floor of the shower, bracing yourself against the tile with one arm. You watch your semen swirl down the drain. You feel clean and ashamed. You brush your teeth and go to bed where a dreamless sleep awaits you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are only going to get angstier from here. :)


	4. Barometric Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kim invites Harry to dinner after work. Harry struggles with their latest case.

HAND-EYE COORDINATION: Your hand shakes when you try to spark your lighter. You’re a bundle of nerves today.

YOU: Outside the precinct you light a cigarette and stare at the sky. It is, somehow, too white. It’s humid. Will it be humid all summer?

ENDURANCE: Your chest is full of the tears you refused to let bubble upwards. 

YOU: Remembering things you used to know happens in bright bursts. Today, the flashbulb of bullshit from your hippocampus comes from your new case involving a murdered 4–year-old boy. What seems to be a rock settles into your stomach when it hits you: the cases with kids are always the hardest. 

To make matters worse, your only suspect is another child.

EMPATHY: You just wanted him to stop crying, but now he won’t even move. 

HALF-LIGHT: You never had a chance.

YOU: You exhale slowly and begrudgingly. You wished the prickly smoke from your cigarette could stay in your lungs forever.

SHIVERS: The victim lays on the stainless steel slab in the morgue of Precinct 41. Though grey and colorless, his face looks like it’s only sleeping. His tiny hands haven’t gone into rigor yet.

INLAND EMPIRE: With him dies a whole life, the potential of a poet or a scientist or a dear friend.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like grains of sand, blown back into the pale.

YOU: You take another drag and try to hold it in even longer. 

PAIN THRESHOLD: This pain is familiar.

KIM KITSURAGI: You spot a familiar orange bomber jacket in your peripheral. It looks bright in the diffuse white daylight. Kim. The only person currently talking to you. The only living soul between you and all that nothingness.

“Detective. Have you eaten?”

YOU: “Uh no, actually.” 

KIM: The man’s lips twitch in a nearly imperceptible smile.

DRAMA: It was a test, sire! You failed.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Want to get dinner?” Kim points a thumb down the road. There’s a diner a few blocks up. You’d love that. You need that. Diner-food with Kim.

YOU: “Sure.” You smile. 

SAVOIR-FAIRE (Medium: Success): Don’t smile that much, can’t seem too desperate for human contact. Doesn’t look cool to be desperate.

YOU: As you walk down the boulevard you clap your chest near your shoulder and let out a pained sigh.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Does your shoulder hurt, officer?” Kim doesn’t look away from the road ahead. It seems he’s noticed you moving slower today. The Jamrock Shuffle has been more shuffle-y than usual.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He saw you limping, he knows you’re weak.

INLAND EMPIRE: Blurry memories of your time spent laid up at The Whirling waft like smoke through your brain. Was it Kim who carefully stitched your bullet holes closed, or a doctor? It was at least definitely him who laid you down and brought you a cool cloth for your fever. It was him, too, who cleaned your wounds when they became infected. 

Another memory, much sharper before fading, is of Kim leaning over your body as blood poured out of you, tears welling hot in your eyes. He looked frightened.

_ “Stay with me, detective.” _

EMPATHY (Easy: Success): He cares about your pain.

YOU: “A bit.” You admit, feeling the thick scar under your shirt. It's not bleeding anymore, but it is gnarled and red. “And my hip, too.” Your leg hurts _more_ than your shoulder, actually. Kim hums.

KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s because it’s supposed to rain tonight.” He says thoughtfully. When you still seem confused, he continues. “The drop in barometric pressure preceding rain can worsen pain from inflammation.”

LOGIC (Medium: Failure): That *sounds* right...

YOU: “Oh.” Kim adjusts his glasses. They mirror the bright white sky.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Sorry, I don’t know what you’d even say to that.” Is Kim feeling self-conscious? “I noticed you’ve slowed down and thought that might be why.”

YOU: He’s probably right but you are too embarrassed to say anything. You’re caught off guard by Kim noticing your pain; of the idea he watches you when you’re not looking.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT): Lt. double-yefreitor Du Bois appears to be favoring his left leg. He is also occasionally rolling his shoulder.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Both where his gun wounds are.

YOU: “After you.” You mumble as you open the door of the diner for him. A chime sounds at your entry 

LOCAL DINER: It’s cramped and smells like burned coffee but it’s clear everyone here feels comfortable. You order the pot-pie and a milkshake. Kim gets a club sandwich and a hot tea. While you wait for the food you tear open a straw and chew the plastic. You already miss the cigarette you finished on the way over.

KIM KITSURAGI: He gracefully slides into the seat across from you. He removes his glasses and cleans them with a cloth from inside his jacket. It strikes you that he looks vulnerable without his glasses on. Uncovered. It’s also easier to see his eyes and appreciate how youthful his face still looks. 

PERCEPTION (SIGHT): His skin is smooth, pulled taught over his sharp cheekbones and jaw. There are little crinkles beside his eyes but realistically he could still pass as being in his late-30s. Your gaze is drawn to the long line of his throat.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He looks good.

SAVOIR-FARE: Unlike you, Mr. Looks-Fifty-Eight.

COMPOSURE (Legendary: Success): We can’t be caught looking at him like that.

YOU: Mercifully, a question occurs to you to fill the empty silence that makes your eyes wander. “Kim, did you always want to be a cop?”

KIM KITSURAGI: He looks up into the empty air thoughtfully, replacing his glasses. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He isn’t trying to remember, he’s wondering how honest his answer should be.

KIM KITSURAGI: “No.” He rests his chin on one hand. “When I was younger, I wanted to be an aerostatic pilot.”

PERCEPTION (SIGHT): A tiny smile, a bit embarrassed.

LOGIC (Medium: Failure): Why embarrassed? That sounds cool.

EMPATHY (Medium: Success): He’s being vulnerable.

YOU: “See, even what you wanted to be as a kid is cool!” His eyes squeeze in a slight smile.

KIM KITSURAGI: “But then I learned we don’t have an Air Force in Revachol. So the dream didn’t last long.” He looks at you with an unreadable expression. “What about you, Harry? Always want to be a cop?” Then he adds with a smirk. “Or a gym teacher?“

ENCYCLOPEDIA (Medium: Failure): We don’t remember that one.

REACTION SPEED: Quick! Make something up!

YOU: “A clown.” You squeeze your nose and make a honking sound. “You know, like the circus?”

KIM KITSURAGI: He smiles. “Of course.” You were hoping to get a laugh out of him, but a smile will do fine.

LOCAL DINER: Your food arrives. You’d forgotten how hungry you were until the smell of pie crust hits your nose. Kim eats at a normal pace, chewing his bites thoroughly before swallowing. You all but inhale your food.

YOU: “I saw a doctor.” You say after a slurp or your milkshake. Kim raises an eyebrow. “Just to check in on… things.” You attempt to explain. “And get the name of a psychiatrist.”

KIM KITSURAGI: This is of interest to him. He tries not to let on, but he’s pleased with these decisions.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: We like when Kim is pleased with us.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Jean walked out with you after your shift, arm slung around your shoulder. It would have felt friendly had he not just been cursing at you.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You try and walk back through these doors and you still haven’t seen a doctor,” He claps you on the shoulder and backs toward the precinct. “I’ll make sure you don’t see a paycheck till you do”

YOU: “Can you do that? You’re not my boss.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE: He points his index finger at you and smiles without teeth. “Just watch me, party boy.”

“And make sure you see a psychiatrist!” He shouts, just loud enough.

YOU: “Jean threatened to not pay me if I didn’t.” You begin to chew on your straw again.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Can he do that?” Kim arches an inquisitive eyebrow as he takes a sip of his tea.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT): The steam from Kim’s cup swirls prettily upward.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He likely would not withhold your pay, but angering him further wouldn’t do any good either.

YOU: “Not normally, no.” Still, you think of the absolute hell you had to pay when Jean found out you’d wrecked your Coupris 40. "But I’ve caused the precinct so much reál I figured I shouldn’t press my luck.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “So,” He moves on, looking at you expectantly. “How did it go?”

EMPATHY (Medium: Success): He doesn’t need the gorey details. He just wants to know if you’re alright.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Just don’t tell him about the burning in your brain.

YOU: “Great!” You say with too much force. Need to take it down a notch if you want him to believe you... “I mean, as great as it can be, given my, you know…” You mime drinking out of a bottle and then press a finger to one nostril and snort. _You know, the drinking and drugs._

DRAMA: Excellent falsehood, my liege.

ENDURANCE: Don’t tell him about us, either.

KIM KITSURAGI: “That’s good, Harry.” He smirks and shakes his head lightly. “I’m glad you’re starting to take care of yourself.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: This isn’t Lt. Kitsuragi talking. This is Kim.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He called us Harry.

PERCEPTION (HEARING): There is a softness to his voice.

EMPATHY: He hopes you’ll be around for a while.

ENDURANCE: So do you.

YOU: You swallow hard and smile, running a hand over your mouth to make sure you don't have any milkshake in your moustache. “Better late than never, right?” Still, you wish the milkshake had some rum in it. The idea makes you salivate.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Right. It’s never too late to make a change.” His words feel stiff. He’s saying something he thinks he _should_ say, that he wants to believe. Then he clears his throat. “Khm. You’d better follow through on that psychiatrist.” His tone is warning while still being friendly.

SUGGESTION (Trivial: Success): No need to risk losing the one ally you have left.

YOU: Holding up your hands in a show of surrender, you laugh. “I won’t risk pissing you _and_ Jean off at once!”

COMPOSURE (Medium: Success): Speaking of pissing...

YOU: “Khm.” The need to relieve yourself suddenly hits you. Are you that out of sync with your body that normal functions still surprise you? “Anyway, I’m gonna go… take a leak. Be right back.” Thankfully Kim doesn’t make a face at your crude wording as you excuse yourself.

RHETORIC (Trivial: Failure): There had to be a better way to say that...

—

Harry admits he’s forgotten his wallet when he returns to the table, just as the check arrives. You let out a controlled sigh and hand the cashier the reál. 

Strangely, these situations often remind you about the surreality of encountering the Insulindian Phasmid. You don’t always remember images, but you did this one: Harry slowly reached out to it, letting its delicate antenna lick his fingers. They looked like they were having a wordless conversation.

When the creature pulled back and vanished, you saw Harry paw a fat tear from his eye. And when he returned to The Whirling that night, he limped over to Lena, The Cryptozoologist's wife, and gave her the photo you’d taken.

You were struck by- though not enough to intervene- how valuable that photo could be. It could have won either one of you a little bit of reál or renown. But Harry, half-dead and exhausted, knew Lena’s joy would be more valuable than any reward.

You remember that whenever Harry bums a cigarette or forgets his wallet when he said a meal would be his treat. _He’d do the same for me._ You remind yourself, letting any annoyance roll off your back like water

“Thanks, Kim.” Harry says bashfully, giving you a half-hearted salute. “My treat next time. I swear.”

—

LOCAL DINER: When you leave the diner Kim holds the door open for you, this time.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Oh, before I forget.” He extends a finger and pokes your shoulder as he follows you out the door. “Consider a hot compress.” 

YOU: “Huh?” An unlit cigarette hangs off your lip. He returns to your field of vision and his lips twitch in a smile.

KIM KITSURAGI: “For your pain.” His tone teases you gently for already forgetting.

ENCYCLOPEDIA (Trivial: Success): Heat is good for muscle pain.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You know what’s good for brain pain?

YOU: “Right! Yeah, thanks Kim. I’ll do that.” Now give him a smile. Perfect. I bet that one was really normal.

COMPOSURE (Godly: Failure): It is The Expression.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. Well, goodnight detective.” Kim puts his hands in his bomber jacket pocket. “See you tomorrow.” You give him a little wave and watch his orange coat get eaten up by the darkness of an early evening. 

HALF-LIGHT: How dare he leave us alone!

LOGIC: This is perfectly reasonable. It’s night time. When people go home. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He can’t know what he’s leaving you with. Everyone has demons. Not everyone has a chorus of 24.

YOU: You light your cigarette and begin your walk home. You don’t live far. After Her Holiness left you moved closer to work. Work was all you had anymore.

EMPATHY: When the small boy's mother finally gets off work, she’ll have to be told about his passing. She isn’t the softest kind of mother, but seeing her little baby blue and lifeless will bring even the hardest woman down.

ENDURANCE: Did that pot-pie turn to lead?

VOLITION: Can’t we wait till we’re home to do this?

YOU: You begin to wander. The visualization of your path home has become obscured by a dense black fog in your brain, so you slide down any street that strikes your fancy.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT): Ligature marks on the neck are consistent with strangulation. The bruising pattern suggests a child-sized hand. 

EMPATHY: How long were these children alone together? They practically have to raise themselves.

PAIN THRESHOLD: He just won’t stop screaming at me.

EMPATHY: Where did he learn to hurt someone like that? It takes a long time for a body to suffocate.

YOU: You swing into an alleyway and vomit where the building meets the pavement. Such a shame. It was a good pot-pie. Groaning, you lean against the wall of the alley. You spit to get the taste of bile out of your mouth. 

PAIN THRESHOLD: Your skull is on fire. 

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Such a shame to waste Kim’s kindness by vomiting it up. 

YOU: You continue down the alley. Something about this is familiar. You’ve wandered Jamrock many times in your life, thinking, turning thoughts over in your mind like stones. And getting drunk while you did it.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Don’t forget about the narcotics! Uppers, downers, both together! A whole rainbow of substances, at your disposal. We should get back to that!

VOLITION (Godly: Success): That is a bad idea.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: That is the only idea!

YOU: You sidle up to a dumpster and kick it with your disco shoe. 

PAIN THRESHOLD: That toe might be broken now.

YOU: You smash the dumpster with the side of your fist a few times. Big, hot tears well up in your eyes. You let your back hit the wall, sinking to the ground, head in your hands.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: They would have been blond, probably, when they were young. Toe-headed and mischievous. You hope, for their sake, that they would have had her eyes. They should have looked like her entirely, you think, and with that wispy hair young children have.

AUTHORITY (Godly: Failure): You would have been terrible at it. You’re bad with kids.

EMPATHY: Your love was dead, by then.

YOU: Tears pour out of your eyes and you sob. Your breath is phlegmy and your nose is leaking snot; you can’t even smell the dumpster next to you. The sight of the dead child on the slab in the morgue will not leave your mind.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: This job gives you a front row seat to the horrors of the world and you cannot close your eyes.

PAIN THRESHOLD: And the reruns are excruciating.

LOCAL DRUNK: A man holding a bottle covered with a paper bag stumbles into the alley. He spots you and wobbles, brow furrowed. “Hey, mate… y’alright?” He drawls. Even the other drunks are worried about you.

VOLITION (Godly: Success): Get up! Go home! Get out of this alley!

YOU: Snorting, you rub your eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” You rasp, pulling yourself up. Your knees crack. “M’fine.” You wave away the drunk. He watches perplexedly as you shuffle away.

You call a taxi. You keep a slip of paper with your address written on it in your jacket pocket, in case you forget again.

TAXI DRIVER: The man driving the taxi thinks you’re drunk, with your ruddy face and swollen eyes. You could tell him you’re not drunk. You don’t.

YOU: Every step you take on the stairs up to your apartment sends a shooting pain through your hip. You don’t stop to catch your breath until you’ve breached your front door. Hands planted in your knees, you take long, wheezing breaths. Your wounded leg is shaking.

It finally begins to rain. You smoke all the cigarettes remaining in your pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bumped the rating up to M because things get a bit dark from here!


	5. In Evening Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kim receives a visitor. Harry has something on his mind.

Pulling the windows open of your apartment, you breathe in the warm summer air. It’s been unusually quiet for a Friday night.

The moment you have this thought you chide yourself. You’ve jinxed it now, certainly.

In truth, you have been feeling uneasy of late. Tensions are rising in Revachol. The Hanged Man was indeed the start of something. What makes you anxious is that no one can yet tell _what_ it was the start of.

And then there’s Harry, who has been acting (more) erratically. There has been an increase in his ambient anxiety levels- you can feel the tension wafting off him. Not to mention smoking a pack a day and forgetting things again. Jean confided in you he thinks Harry’s been drinking again. Whatever it is, something is not right with him.

It is nearly 20:00 when a heavy knock rattles your front door. You had been reading in your living room, considering when you should have your nightly smoke. But now, you’re opening the door to find _him._

“Heya Kim,” Harry Du Bois says, leaning one arm against the doorframe, contorting his face into what you think is supposed to be a charming smile. You immediately smell tequila on him- he’s practically sweating it. Your worry for him transforms into anger and your stomach sinks.

“Detective.” You keep your tone clipped. You’re irritated and you want him to know. He’s off the wagon and he’s at your door, making it your problem. Then Harry wobbles and The Expression falters. “How did you know I would be home?”

“Lucky guess?” Harry smirks at you. You might find this cheeky if you weren’t so irate. His face finally falls, eyes going droopy and sad. “Sorry, Kim. I didn’t know… where else to go.”

“Inside, officer.” You place a firm hand on his shoulder, pulling him inside. ”Sit down.” You motion to the couch. He stumbles over to it, sitting heavily down with a shuddering exhale. You pour him a glass of water. 

“Drink water.” You say flatly, handing him the cup. He takes it, sipping at it like a child who should have been given a sippy cup. Watching him makes you sad.

“You’re drunk.” You note. You try not to sound judgemental to avoid a total meltdown so you use the tone reserved for work. Harry snorts in his glass, bubbling the water.

“Detective Kim is on the case!” Harry responds wetly. You fold your arms. 

“What happened?” This isn’t an interrogation, you remind yourself. You sound like you’re interrogating him. Harry looks at you like a kicked puppy. The wheels in his head are still turning, booze be damned, trying to come up with an explanation.

“Kim, do you r’member the Pale?” He doesn’t answer you question. You roll your eyes and your shoulders tense. You do remember. It’s not something you like to dwell on. Thoughts of the Pale fill you with an empty feeling, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. He continues, pulling a battered paperback from his jacket pocket, flapping it at you. “The hole in the church, in Martinese.”

“Yes. I remember.” You’re trying very hard not to let your impatience show. Harry drags a thick-fingered hand over his face but he smiles.

“The hole, in the world, the Lady of Silence- what if I had holes like that, in my brain? What if it’s _killing_ me?” 

Despite your logical impulse to dismiss this as the ramblings of a drunk man, your stomach squeezes at the postulation. It’s just more brain-project nonsense and a relapse, nothing more. Now you’re irritated. You find Harry’s eccentricities charming, normally. But when he’s sitting on your couch, drunk for the first time in months at 8PM on a Friday night, it is losing its novelty.

“Harry,” His name is like punctuation coming out of your mouth, a big black full-stop. Enough of this. You fix your hands behind your back. “You do not have holes in your brain. Real or metaphysical.” 

His sad gaze slides away from you, back to his glass of water. He drains it, then holds the book in his hands, rubbing it with his thumbs. 

“You’re right, Kim. Of course you’re right!” Harry lets his head drop back on the couch. There’s still water on his moustache. You go to the cabinet and retrieve two aspirin. Harry starts to grumble, covering his eyes with his hand. “Sorry… m’sorry. I’m an asshole.”

You don’t respond but hold out your hand and place the pills in the sweaty palm not plastered to his brow. “Take these.”

“Drugging me, eh, lieutenant?” Harry says, taking the pills obediently, swallowing them dry. He runs a hand through his hair and you can see his eyes are swimming, watery and dilated, watching something you can’t see. You wonder if he’ll ask to sleep here. It would be prudent to just assume he will. He’s too drunk. Surely not the drunkest he’s ever been, but too drunk to be on his own.

“Lay down, detective.” He does so without thinking, kicking his shoes off. You make a mental note to pick them up later.

“I’m not tired, Kim.” Says the man who is horizontal with his eyes closed.

“Perhaps not, but you are drunk.” You gently take the paperback from his hands. The title reads _Road to Nowhere: Journeys in the Pale_. At least he isn’t reading fantasy novels and arriving at your door to declare his quixotic quest to slay dragons in the park. You refill his water glass and place it on the coffee table before taking a seat on the chair nearby. You’ve never really needed the extra furniture in your apartment before, but kept it just in case. Who would have figured, your new drunk, amnesiac partner would be what filled the empty space.

You’re still holding his book as you sit in the chair. The cover is completely black but for the title and the white creases where the paper has been folded. You imagine Harry shoving it in his jacket pocket and the cover ripping a little at the spine. It’s a horrible way to treat a book, but the image fills your chest with warmth. 

“‘M not even _that_ drunk…” Harry slurs from the couch. flailing his arms in a bewildered shrug. “But Kim, I feel like I’m floating. In water. Not a good way. Like I’m in a tank.” He taps the floor with his fingers.

“I’m sorry…” He says again, quieter now. Harry apologizes a lot. Sometimes you hate how pitiful he acts, how he makes you pity him. Sometimes you hate the soft, indulgent feeling he engenders in you.

“Take a nap, Harry.” You say flatly. He groans, covering his face again, letting the other hand fall down and graze the floor.

“Just rest my eyes for a few...” He grumbles, defiant until his breath finally begins to slow. Sighing, you look at his book again and open it to a random page.

> _-rarefied past, as in a past that has been expanded and therefore made less-dense, creates the phenomenon known colloquially as the “blend-over of the self.” The past, to an over-radiated mind, can become the present, mimicking the flashbacks of, for example, a Stress and Trauma Disorder response._
> 
> _Most commonly, this phenomenon presents itself in entroponetic travelers who travel consistently at or above the maximum 22 annual travel hours. In very rare cases, entroponetic over-radiation can manifest without explicit pale travel. But such cases present themselves in subjects with intense neurological damage unrelated to the pale, and as such cannot be defined as strictly entroponetic._

You feel yourself drifting off as you read. The sound of Harry’s quiet snoring lulls you. It’s surprising, how easily you doze off with Harry in your living room.

You are shaken awake by the heavy thumping of Harry’s feet as he sprints into the bathroom. You hear him become violently ill. At least, by the sounds of it, he made it to the toilet. Truly, a professional alcoholic.

You try not to look at him kneeling on the tile and flushing the toilet as you run a washcloth under the tap.

“‘M sorry, Kim.” His eyes are swimming in tears. He looks pathetic, and, as it happens, not all that drunk anymore. 

“It’s alright, Harry.” Your voice is gentler now. You can’t help it. You hate him for it. You hold out the cool wet cloth to him.

“Thanks.” When he takes it you could swear you feel a heat coming off his fingers. Does he have a fever? You lean down and press a palm to his forehead. He does feel warm, but it could be heat leftover from the day's sun. You catch one of his glassy eyes looking at you, hypnotized.

“You should take a shower, detective.” You withdraw your hand and avoid his eyes. You can’t look at them right now- they are too open, too emotional. _It’s probably just the weather and the alcohol,_ you think _._ “It might help you cool off.”

Harry stares at you, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. Then he smiles weakly. “That’s a great idea. Thank you.”

You nod and grab him a fresh towel from the shelf above the sink. He takes it sheepishly, pulling at the neck of his shirt..

You decide to have your cigarette for the day.

—

INLAND EMPIRE: If you close your eyes the faucet in the shower feels like a waterfall, battering your body, beautiful and cold.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Kim stepped into the shower after checking the water is warm. He ran a hand through his hair, bending his head back into the water. His brow furrowed, he leaned his arm against the tile, then his head. He thought about something. He chewed the inside of his lip and let his hand slide down his stomach…

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: What did he think about?

EMPATHY: Pleasure.

PAIN THRESHOLD: The denial of it.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: What do you think about?

YOU: All of it.

ENDURANCE: Burning hot skin.

—

You stand on the tiny balcony of your apartment barefoot, staring out at the city without seeing.

Why had he come here, drunk and disoriented? And why did you welcome him anyway? The twisting feeling of warmth and worry, the impulse to sooth him. You hate it. But it won’t leave you.

You’ve thought of Harry coming to your apartment before. It’s been a disturbingly common daydream for you. Sometimes when you’re driving in your Kineema while there’s a lull in the conversation, you think you should ask him over. As colleagues, as friends, to… socialize. But your dreams were never like this. In your fantasy he’d have cleaned up his act- he’d _seen_ that psychiatrist. So that it became safer for you to get closer.

You blow smoke into the dark summer air. None of that has happened. You’ve just worked beside him, day after day, and lived inside that sting of wanting but not having, of being afraid that if you touch him you will sink into his sorrow like a swamp. Sweat beads on the back of your neck from the humidity. You run your thumb over your lip. You think of Harry’s sad, watery eyes and hot skin. You toss what’s left of your cigarette off the balcony and go back inside.

Harry has returned to the living room, dressed with damp hair. All but the top buttons of his shirt are done; you can see the hair on his collarbone and below. He’s leafing through one of your books on aerostatics. When you approach and feel his forehead this time he looks startled but doesn’t flinch. His fever- or whatever it was- seems to have abated. He smells like soap and and toothpaste and skin.

“You should see a doctor if you get a fever again.Your gunshot wounds could still be infected.” Somewhere in your mind a desire to touch his scars surfaces; a few inches from where his shirt is open, you know there is a gnarled pink line. You know, because it was you who stitched it shut. “Did you use my toothbrush?”

“What? No way!” Harry shrinks away, grinning and holds his hands up in defense and as proof. “I just used a finger, rubbed some toothpaste around in there. But I did borrow your toothpaste.”

Maybe this should annoy you, but it doesn’t. With dismay you think it’s sweet. Humming thoughtfully, you examine him. He’s still pale but the color in his face is returning. His eyes still look sad and you can tell he’s tired. But he looks at you warmly, eyes dancing from your eyes to your mouth to the wall beyond you.

“Sorry again, for showing up. My head’s a mess. I’ve got a lot on my mind.” Then his eyes go downcast. ”I'm feeling much better now, I should go home.” 

This sounds too much like a lie for your comfort. His shoulders are heavy with the pain he’s still feeling. He’s just trying to spare you further drama now that he’s sober enough to think straight. 

Your guts start to squirm. _This isn’t how it’s supposed to go_. Now that he’s here, you don’t want him to leave. You tell yourself that it’s for his safety, but is that all? Is that really the reason you don’t want Harry to leave, with his chest hair and that desperate hunger in his eyes? That look you’ve seen before, with the smoker on the balcony, with Klaasje?

“Really, Kim, thanks. You didn’t have to let me in, but I-” Harry doesn’t move to leave yet but he puts the book back on your shelf carefully. He doesn’t want your book to get damaged like his paperback. “Well I appreciate it. Thanks, for everything.” He smiles at you and it’s genuine but it’s also sad. He seems calm, somehow. Serene. 

“Before I go,” Harry reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulls a piece of cloth out. “I wanted to return this.”

You realize, Kim, that it is _your_ handkerchief, lent to him after he vomited at the sight of the Hanged Man. He kept it. And washed it, by the looks of it. You reach out and brush it with your fingers. Only the thin layer of cloth separates your two hands. _Why did he keep it?_

“That’s not necessary.” You scarcely shake your head and withdraw your hand. “You can keep it.”

Harry grabs your hand with both of his. His calm demeanor is teetering. “Please, Kim.” His voice wavers. “You’ve done so much for me, I just want to… do something, for you. I know it’s stupid, but please...”

Nervous silence has washed over you as you investigate his face. His brow has collapsed into a furrow, trying to make you hold the handkerchief, wrapping his hands around yours. He is suddenly worried you will not take this returned gift. _He really thinks he’s dying._ You realize. He’s _tying up loose ends._

He could be full of shit or delusional. But he could be right, in that way that impossible way he sometimes is. Inexplicably, like he plucked the truth out of thin air. He could, for whatever reason, be dying. It could be the booze, or the drugs, or cancer, or the gloaming of the pale taking root in the folds of his brain.

You could be out of time.

Something wound tight inside you snaps. 

You drop the handkerchief and grab his neck with both hands and you kiss him. What are you doing? _An hour ago he was vomiting all over your bathroom and now you’re kissing him?_

 _Yes_ , because you’re terrified and you’re hungry. For him on both counts. You feel his hand shake as he takes hold of your shoulders. He doesn’t push you away but pulls you in. He deepens it, letting out a low whimper. Has he thought about this like you have? Moving a thick hand up your neck, he cups your face and you can feel him shivering. You press him up against the bookshelf, knocking some paperbacks onto the floor. Harry glances down at them nervously. 

“Leave them.” You’re surprised by the gravel in your voice. So is Harry, and he lets out a pleased grumble, pulling you flush to him.

“Kim…” His voice is a hoarse whisper. You don't know what he’s trying to say and you don’t care. It doesn’t matter. It can’t “Kim, I don’t-” He mumbles between kisses. Tears are welling up in his eyes. “Kim, I-”

“Stop talking, detective.” You’re desperate when you say this. You didn’t intend to _sound_ so desperate. _Please stop talking, about your brain, about the Pale._ “Please.”

Harry meets your desperation with his watery eyes before melting back into you, kissing you deeply and tasting like toothpaste and nothing else, not even death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments! ;)


	6. Motorway South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We've come, now, to the unraveling.

KIM KITSURAGI: He has fallen asleep. Somehow you are surprised that he sleeps on his stomach- you figured he would lay on his back with his hands resting on his abdomen, good posture even while unconscious. But instead he’s on his stomach, head turned towards you on his pillow, breathing soft puffs of air.

EMPATHY (Easy: Success): He trusts you.

KIM KITSURAGI: He looks so vulnerable like this- so human. Seeing him prostrate, comfortable enough to dream with you in his bed, leaves you so tender-feeling you could cry.

Obviously he doesn’t wear glasses in his sleep. His eyes look naked. You want to kiss them.

CONCEPTUALIZATION (Challenging: Success): You are adrift on an ocean of nothingness and this mattress is your raft.

INLAND EMPIRE (Legendary: Success): How lucky are you, Harry? To find a little piece of love in your late-stage. 

YOU: There is a clench in your chest. You lay down carefully so you can watch him.

INTERFACING (Easy: Success): Don’t wake him up.

YOU: You wonder what he sees in his sleep. You hope it’s nothing like what you see- garish recreations of your greatest failures and deepest fears, overdubbed with the voices that live the farthest recesses of your amygdala.

INLAND EMPIRE: If the two of you sleep close together, maybe you can share dreams. Maybe peace is contagious. 

●●●

  
  


LIMBIC SYSTEM: Did you think sleep would be here? No, it’s not around. There is no vacancy at this motel. *She’s* taking up all the room.

YOU: Oh, great. Her again. Is... that music playing?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: YEAH IT’S DISCO, BABY! Don’t you remember, Harry-boy? Way back when? You met her at a discotheque. Hedonism was your matchmaker, baby! Speed and liquor and disco dancing. You’d never seen someone so beautiful in all your life.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: But that’s no way to live, Harry boy. She outgrew it and you didn’t. Hedonism was the 3rd wheel. Three's a crowd, baby!

LOGIC (Easy: Success) A man like that would make a terrible father. Not one a child can depend on.

YOU: A child...

LIMBIC SYSTEM: You always refused to talk about it. Maybe part of you always thought you’d end up with one, someday. With her, it would have been easy. 

Would it have changed things if she’s told you beforehand?

YOU: I’ll give it all up, baby! All the drugs and shit for you, and for…

SUGGESTION: No, that wouldn’t have worked. Not in a world like this. Too many dead kids in the morgue at the precinct every month. Too many people killing because they have to or because they can.

VOLITION: And it’s not like you had any good examples to emulate.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Party eyes are your paternal birthright!

HALF-LIGHT: Terror, too.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: The truth has always been there, buried in your forebrain. You don’t make things, Harry, you devour them. You leech them of life and love until they have no more to give. How would a child fare?

DOLORES DEI: “You would have been a miserable father. I couldn’t curse our daughters like that, Harry.”

YOU: Collapsing in a sobbing heep, you say “I know, I know. I wasn’t going to get better. The more time I spend here the less better I get. Every minute I’m alive I’m on fire.” 

You tug on the hem of her skirt and the handle of her suitcase. You’re not convincing anyone. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

DOLORES DEI: ”I know, Harry.” She puts a hand upon the crown of your head but still you get no absolution. The tears come retching out of you. There’s snot in your moustache. “I know, that’s why I got an abortion. And why I fucked *****.”

LIMBIC SYSTEM: You still can’t hear his name!

DOLORES DEI: “That’s why I left you, Harry. There was no hope with you anymore.”

YOU: Your cry has gone silent. Your face is twisted up and red. 

●●●

  
  


“Harry?” Kim says, his voice a half asleep rasp, his eyes half open. 

“I’m sorry,” You say, wet tears on your eyes and cheeks. “I’m sorry, Kim. The world is ending.”

You cup his cheek with one hand and you kiss the corner of his mouth. The softness of this gesture will strike him in the future. You leave the bed and you leave the apartment. He falls back into the bed, asleep. It won’t be till morning he remembers you were here.

  
  


●●●

  
  


ESPRIT DE CORPS: Kim Kitsuragi is 10-years-old when he gets his first pair of eyeglasses. He tried to keep the blurry words on the chalkboard a secret, but when his grades began to suffer he was found out

Kim scowls at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and scowls at his reflection. The lenses are thick like the bottoms of soda bottles.

INLAND EMPIRE: He’s not much older when he learns poor eyesight is a disqualifying factor when choosing aerostatic pilots.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: And they don’t let men fly in Revachol anymore.

ENDURANCE: The sight of planes soaring overhead brings with it extra longing, now. It feels like an invisible hand pushing his face into the dirt.

●●●

  
  


CONCEPTUALIZATION: Maybe you are like the pinewood church, built up around a molecule of nothing in your mother’s womb. Maybe a speck of pale flew up your nasal cavity and into your brain like a tiny bit of pollen in spring. Maybe _you_ put it there, with the way you’ve drunk yourself half to death, denying your grey matter the nutrients it needs to stay alive. But it’s there, inside your mind, eating up your memories. An erosion you didn’t notice till you woke up and it was all gone. _She_ was gone, but so was all of it. Your date of birth, your mother's name, the place you’d hide in the house when your father was drinking.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: How long till the rest of those memories go?

LIMBIC SYSTEM: Even the sweet ones.

●●●

  
  


DOLORES DEI: The Innosense hugs your close, one last time. She’s warm. Hot. Her skin feels like the radiator in the apartment you shared. It hurts your skin.

YOU: Is she an alien creature from some other plane? What is an Innocent but an extra-natural being? An interloper in the world of mortals?

YOU: When you pull away, you stick your revolver muzzle to her heart and shoot. You see her beautiful, horrible face distort in pain and it looks almost like pleasure. Her lungs glow hotter, like irons. You can see the red glow through her rib cage. Both your hearts beat loud in your ears.

●●●

  
  


YOU: You press Kim into the bed with the full weight of your body. 

INTERFACING: His spine bends, his pelvis swivels.

PERCEPTION (HEARING): He moans.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He locks his heels behind your thighs, pulling your torsos together.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Your lungs touch. 

KIM KITSURAGI: “Ah, Harry-” He shivers as you taste the skin at the base of his neck.

PERCEPTION (TASTE): He tastes salty.

YOU: “Fuck, Kim.” Your words are strangled by your own desire to keep kissing him. You never want to stop; couldn’t bear to. A bead of sweat drops from your brown and onto his.

  
  


●●●

  
  


ESPRIT DE CORPS: You remember it all, now. Kim, hovering over you, putting pressure on your wounds, your blood staining his fingertips. His mouth forms the words “no, no, not again” and you hope this same thing didn’t happen to Kim’s old partner. You’d hate to be another bad memory for another good person.

You don’t remember him removing the bullets from your body but you do remember him, jacket removed, stitching your skin closed. His hand was steady as he worked but the moment he was done they began to shake.

He dozed off in the chair beside your bed. Ready to tend you when you need it, just after a little rest. It felt like he’d always been there and always would be.

When you finally woke up, truly woke up, his face bloomed in your vision, a halo of light, his face a mess of bruises, but with a small smile, his lips reminding you: “ _Sunrise, parabellum._ ”

In that moment, Parabellum sounded like a name, like Ironside, like Harrier. Like Tequila Sunset. _Time to wake up, soldier, there’s a war still to be won._

_Yes, comrade, there is._ You’d say and stand up in a puddle of blood and kiss each one of his bruises.

  
  


—

  
  
  


“I don’t know where he is, that’s why I called.” Kim says into the telephone receiver flatly. The response it gives makes him frown. “He was here last night. He relapsed. Yes. But this morning there’s no trace of him.”

There is more silence, as the phone receiver mutters. Kim rubs his chin. 

“I apologize. I don’t know why I didn’t realize he'd left sooner. I’ve never been a deep sleeper.” Knowing he slept through this departure troubles him. Knowing what caused him to sleep so deeply last night fills him with guilt.

More muttering. Kim nods.

“... I am worried, yes. He was acting strangely.” Kim tries not to grit his teeth. 

The call ends. Kim hands up the receiver and puts a hand in his pocket. He curses lightly, then looks out the window and rubs a bruise on his neck.

He pads around the living room like he’s looking for clues. He picks up books that had fallen from the shelf. His hand quavers ever slightly. Mechanically, he sits on the couch.

A book is on the couch, all black. He picks it up, rubbing thumbs over his cover. Kim thinks about the book and he thinks about something else. He notices a white piece of cloth on the floor. Kim runs the fabric between his fingers and touches the bruise on his neck.

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Kim grabs his orange coat and leaves the room.

He will find you by nightfall, one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my friends on the Pacific Kim DIscord for their input on my last few chapters! It means a lot to have the input of fellow fans.
> 
> I'm sorry this ending wasn't as spicy as some of you wanted, but I've got ideas for this universe in the future. ;)


End file.
